


Shadows Will Scream That You're Alone (And No One Can Save You Now)

by orphan_account



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, The Youngblood Chronicles (Music Video)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Blood, Depression, Fluff, Ghosts, Horror, Kissing, M/M, Suicide, Time Travel, ghost!Patrick, graphic violence at the end and in the middle, some YBC elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 22:08:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8419102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Pete turns to collapse onto the safety of his bed, and suddenly recoils, gasping.There is a boy sitting cross-legged on the mattress, picking absently at his thumbnail.He glances up at Pete's noise, apparently unsurprised. "Hello," he says, somewhat disinterestedly, and resumes his activities.Pete is stricken nearly speechless, but manages to stutter out, "Who--who a-are you?"The boy looks up again, golden-red hair falling into his blue eyes. At least, Pete thinks they're blue. They appear to be constantly shifting colors, from green to ocean back to blue again. It's mesmerizing, and he forces himself to look away."Patrick," he says. "I'm guessing you're Pete?"|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|Happy Halloween.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a sort of vent-fic with depressed Pete, but then I decided to churn it out in time for Halloween. I temporarily abandoned my other fics to focus on this, and, well, hope it's not too shitty and at least somewhat creepy.
> 
> So... don't choke on your Halloween candy!
> 
> Song throughout is Migraine by twenty one pilots, song at the end is Immortals by Fall Out Boy. Title is also Migraine.
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy.

The rubber band makes a dull snapping sound as it smacks his wrist. He almost smiles, ignoring the stinging, tingling sensation that follows, examining the clearly defined pink mark on his tan skin. 

Pete doesn't know why he smiles.

This is a way to punish himself for his mistakes. A reminder not to make them again. It's temporary, the pain lasting for a few minutes at most, it leaves no scars, so no one can tell, and it's at his disposal, all day, at all times. Besides, the mere thought of slicing his own skin with a blade makes him nauseous.

He moves on to the next regret: confiding in Brendon about a problem he had had at the time. The dark-haired boy hadn't taken Pete as seriously as he wished he would have, and had simply given a vague comment on the problem before bounding away to chat with Ryan instead. Understandable, as Brendon _did_ have a big crush on the taller boy.

Pete berates himself anyway for thinking, for hoping, that someone could care about him, just a little bit.

 _Snap_.

Blurting something out in class in an attempt to make people laugh, to gain a little bit of status. No reaction, just cold silence behind the constant chatter.

 _Snap_.

The list goes on, mostly petty things, some worse than others.

But Pete knows that the small things build up, and the small things must be stopped.

The pain, both physical and emotional, ebbs for now.

But the Pete also knows that it will be back tomorrow.

He sighs and releases the rubber band, curling into his blankets and ignoring the pounding headache behind his eyelids.

|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|

Pete trudges up the stairs to his bedroom, fiddling with the circle of rubber gracing his thin wrist. Despite having lived here for nearly a year now, he thinks that the house still feels somewhat foreign. He shoves open his bedroom door, spinning as he enters to close it immediately, simultaneously heaving his backpack onto the carpet. Pete turns to collapse onto the safety of his bed, and suddenly recoils, gasping.

There is a boy sitting cross-legged on the mattress, picking absently at his thumbnail.

He glances up at Pete's startled noise, apparently unsurprised. "Hello," he says, somewhat disinterestedly, and resumes his activities.

Pete is stricken, nearly speechless, but he manages to stutter out, "Who--who the hell are you?"

The boy looks up again, golden-red hair falling into his blue eyes. At least, Pete thinks they're blue. They appear to be constantly shifting colors, from green to ocean back to green again. It's mesmerizing, and he has to force himself to look away.

"Patrick," he says. "I'm guessing you're Pete?"

Pete presses back against the door. "How do you know my name?"

Patrick gestures to the papers strewn haphazardly across Pete's beige carpet. "It's on your schoolwork and stuff."

Pete shifts uneasily, growing more wary by the second. "How did you get in here? Why are you here?"

The boy shrugs in a noncommittal fashion, quirking up his mouth slightly. It's kind of cute, and it suits him. "Well, I didn't climb in through the window, did I? And I don't really have a reason for being here. I just am." Pete frowns. The answers are vague, too vague.

"Well, would you mind leaving?"

"Yes."

God, this kid is feisty as hell.

Pete recovers his wits enough to say, "Well, _I_ do, so--"

Patrick rises suddenly. "M'kay, then. See you around, Peter."

Then he's out the door, down the hall, and Pete is left gaping like a fish. "W-wait!" he gasps, jolting into action after a moment and racing into the hallway to catch Patrick.

The corridor is empty.

He leaps down the stairs and into the foyer. The front door is closed, as are the back door and the windows, and the threshold is unoccupied. Confusion washes over Pete. How did Patrick leave so quickly, and without so much as a sound? He's not in the house; nor is he out in the front yard or Pete's mother's garden.

Knitting his dark eyebrows together, Pete trudges back up the stairs and into his room, closing the door behind him.

|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|

When Pete returns home from school the next day, he settles into his usual routine: up the stairs, down the hallway, into his bedroom. But this time, he stops with his hand on the doorknob, hesitating.

_Will Patrick be there?_

He braces himself for a shock and turns the knob, entering his room. Patrick is cross-legged on his bed again, gazing up at Pete's band posters, which are plastered haphazardly across the wall, a gallery of Danzig and Guns 'N Roses and Iron Maiden, among others. His head is cocked ever so slightly, and he's wearing a black fedora today.

The boy looks up at the new arrival. "Hey," he greets Pete with a nod, reverting his attention to the posters. Pete warily returns the greeting, unshouldering his heavy backpack and sitting down next to Patrick, sinking into the slightly worn red comforter.

"I've never heard of these bands," Patrick muses, and Pete turns to him in surprise.

"What? Have you been living under a rock or something?"

"Or something," Patrick mutters. "Can I listen to some of their music? I saw your CDs but I didn't want to touch them unless you said it was okay."

Pete finds it ironic that Patrick considers it acceptable to let himself into a stranger's home and sit on their bed, waiting for them to return home from school, whilst examining their belongings, but asks to listen to their CDs instead of just doing so. He obliges anyway, selecting the Danzig record and popping it into his stereo. The music blares from the speakers after a short pause, and Pete settles back onto his bed, closing his eyes and exhaling.

After a few moments, he cracks an eyelid.

Patrick appears to be perfectly still, taking in the sound of the music filling the room. Pete studies him without really meaning to. The kid seems to be only slightly shorter than he himself is, and a bit younger, perhaps by a year or two. His skin is pale, almost like porcelain, and he absentmindedly tugs the sleeves of his maroon cardigan over his knuckles, making sweater paws.

He's inexplicably, undeniably _adorable_ , and Pete doesn't catch himself smiling until Patrick does so for him.

"You're smiling," he says, and Pete blushes.

_Fucking blushes._

Patrick leans close and swipes a calloused thumb over Pete's mouth, purposely dragging up the corners of Pete's lips as he does so, to make his grin bigger. Pete laughs nervously and gently pushes at him, ignoring his tingling lips and the heat rushing back into his cheeks. Patrick falls back onto the bed with a squeak of surprise, and Pete sees a golden opportunity.

He lunges forward, hands outstretched, and begins tickling Patrick's sides. The smaller boy shrieks and writhes, laughter escaping in unbidden staccato bursts from his throat. "Pete--god, seriously--s-stop, _fuck!_ " he wheezes, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

Pete stops abruptly when the obscenity flies from Patrick's mouth. "Did you just--" 

Patrick sits up, looking slightly confused. "Did I just what?" 

Pete tries not to pay attention to the way Patrick's chest heaves. He really does.

"Say 'fuck,'" he clarifies, pushing away the other thought.

Patrick tilts his head. "Yeah, I did, is that a problem? Because I'll try not to curse if it makes you uncomfortable."

Pete hastily shakes his head. "No, no, no, it's perfectly fine, I do it all the time. You just... no offense, but you seem kinda innocent to say 'fuck' or whatever." He looks down at his rumpled comforter, embarrassed. A pale hand pokes at Pete's splayed fingers, and he looks up.

Patrick is leaning close again, smirking. "You want innocent?" He slowly wets his pink lips, his wide-eyed gaze meeting Pete's all the while.

Pete gulps.

Patrick suddenly slips off the bed, smirking suggestively at Pete as he leaves.

Pete is frozen in place, dumbfounded and blushing again.

|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|

The familiar slap of rubber on skin fills the silence of the bedroom. Pete grimaces at the clear red line forming on the back of his hand. It's more noticeable there, but more effective. He can always conceal the marks with his hoodie sleeves if he needs to.

"Why do you do that?" Patrick's voice comes from behind Pete, and the raven-haired boy whirls around with a startled gasp.

"Don't do that, dammit!"

"Sorry," Patrick says, not sounding all that sorry. "But why? Every day, I see you do it. You don't cut or anything. Just this. But I don't know why."

Pete sighs, smoothing down his flat-ironed hair. "Punishment."

"For what?"

"My mistakes."

"I don't think you deserve that."

"You'd be surprised."

Patrick says nothing. He's sitting cross-legged on Pete's pillow, and Pete moves up, gently prodding at Patrick. "Move over, dude. I need to sleep."

The boy obliges, scooting sideways until he perches at the edge of the mattress. Pete flops down with a sigh, pulling up the flannel blanket. They sit in silence, the darkness weaving a shadowy blanket of its own.

"Patrick?"

"Mm?"

"Can I ask you some things?"

"Sure."

"I've known you for a few months now, right?"

"You tell me, Petey."

Pete tries not to blush at the nickname, though he knows Patrick can't see it in the dark. It feels like a pet name, almost.

"Right. Yeah. So, anyway. Why are you always here? I don't even know where you live. Or how old you are. Can you at least tell me about yourself?"

Patrick shifts on the bed, turning to face Pete. "Well, to start: my full name is Patrick Martin Stumph. I'm sixteen and my birthday is April twenty-seventh. I play guitar and I love music. This has always kind of been my home."

Pete frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Uh, not this house, specifically. Just--" Pete thinks he's spreading his arms wide, gesturing around them, "--this, I guess. This city. Town. Village. Peasant party. Shithole. Whatever. And to answer your first question, I saw someone had moved in, so I finally got around to saying hi. That's why I was here, the first time. But I kept coming back because of you."

His explanation is concise, but Pete is somewhat satisfied. "Thanks, I guess?"

They stay quiet for a long while.

"Do you sing?" Pete breaks the silence, his voice unnervingly loud even in hushed tones.

Patrick scratches at the back of his neck. "Kinda, I guess."

Pete rolls onto his side to face Patrick. "Can you sing to me?" 

Patrick makes a little noise of protest. 

"Come on, please?"

The younger boy (by a year, as Pete now knows) reluctantly opens his mouth, and the sweetest sound Pete has ever heard drifts from those perfect lips.

_"Am I the only one I know, waging my wars behind my face and above my throat? Shadows will scream that I'm alone..."_

Pete sits up, stunned. Patrick's voice trails off, and Pete knows that he's blushing. "I told you, it's not really that great."

"What the fuck? Can you even _hear_ yourself, dude? That was fucking _amazing!_ " Pete blurts out. He lurches forward, grabbing at Patrick's hands.

They're ice cold, despite the comfortable temperature of the bedroom, and Pete gasps, flinching away.

Patrick looks confused and a little hurt. "What? What's wrong?"

Pete shakes his head. "Nothing, just startled. Sorry."

"No, what? Why'd you gasp like that? Did I do something?"

"Your hands were cold, that's all. I was just startled."

Patrick hums in response. "Oh. Okay."

Pete lies back down, readjusting the blankets. "Can you sing again?" Patrick nods and starts over. Pete sighs contentedly, closing his eyes and slowly, gradually drifting off with Patrick's voice. The majority of the song sounds kind of like a rap, but Patrick puts a somewhat eerie, but beautiful melody to it.

_"Shadows will scream that I'm alone, but I know we've made it this far, kid..."_

|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|

Pete wakes up to early-morning sunlight filtering in through the wooden blinds. He sits up with a groan, squinting and blinking against the brightness. When his eyes adjust, he sees Patrick, sitting cross-legged on his bed, holding a s'mores Pop-Tart. Pete rubs the sleep from his eyes. "W-what time is it?" His voice comes out gravelly and hoarse, and he cringes.

Patrick appears unperturbed, however. "Six-thirty." He holds out the Pop-Tart, and Pete takes it tentatively, nibbling on the edge.

He can't help but admire the way Patrick's pale skin seems to glow in the soft golden light, the way his bangs fall gently over his blue-green eyes, and... _oh_.

He's in boxers.

Pete feels a light blush creep over his face, and Patrick smiles quizzically. "Your ears are turning red." Pete chokes on a mouthful of chocolate icing and marshmallow filling. He swallows hurriedly, ignoring the dry burn of crumbs in his throat, and turns his head away, swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. "W-what?"

Patrick giggles--actually _giggles_ \--and god, it's the best thing Pete's ever heard next to Patrick's singing voice.

"Your ears turned red. You started blushing, why?"

Pete sets down the last few bites of his Pop-Tart, a silent invitation for Patrick to help himself. He does, delicately breaking it apart one small piece at a time. Pete shifts, carefully keeping the blanket over his hips, and mumbles, "Well, I just wasn't really expecting you to be here, I guess. In your underwear." His face warms even more as he says the last part.

Patrick cocks his head thoughtfully. "Well, you're in your boxers, too. And I'm wearing a shirt. But I can put on pants if you're uncomfortable?" The offer is sincere, but Pete finds himself shaking his head. "No, really, it's fine. I was just startled."

The younger boy smiles. "Always startled, huh?"

"I'm a jumpy guy."

Patrick laughs and eats a bite of Pop-Tart. "I used to be jumpy, too."

"Used to be?"

His sea-colored gaze suddenly flickers with something strange. "Uh, yeah." Patrick's expression returns to normal, so quickly that Pete wonders if he imagined the strange color in his eye. "I'm better now."

They sit in silence for a while, until Pete excuses himself to get some water from the kitchen. When he returns, Patrick is gone.

|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|

Shadows rip at Pete's arms, causing ruby red to flow against the golden skin. He screams, twisting and writhing in futile attempts to wrench himself away as the blood gushes from his opened veins.

Somehow he has not passed out, somehow he is not dead.

The darkness yanks him back, swallowing him, tearing at his abdomen, and he sobs.

_Just let it be over._

A burgundy flower blossoms on his t-shirt and he whimpers, pressing his palms to the stain. They come back dripping with red fluid, and he cries out.

Suddenly Pete is free, and he collapses to his knees, gasping and sobbing.

He curls into a ball, tears soaking his blotchy red cheeks.  The blood is in his hair, on his shirt and jeans and arms and legs. It soaks his socks and dribbles down his cheek. He had no idea there could be so much blood.

A hand lands gently on Pete's shoulder, and this time, he knows it's not the shadows, coming back for more.

He unfurls, a fern blossoming, and the hands nudge him into a sitting position. Pete pries open his scarlet-stained eyelids. He sees nothing but red until calloused fingers tenderly swipe away the blood clouding his vision.

Patrick kneels in front of him, looking worried and scared. "I gotcha," he murmurs, leaning forward and enveloping Pete in a hug. He smells of licorice and coffee and something Patrick. Pete smells of iron and bitterness and pain.

Agony abruptly slices through Pete's neck.

Too literally.

A bloodied hand flies up to his throat, and his fingers slip on blood that he knows wasn't there before. He tries to scream for Patrick to help him, and liquid burbles from his jugular artery. Pete shoves frantically at Patrick's shoulder, leaving crimson streaks on his blue button-down.

Patrick pulls away, looks at Pete, who's rapidly dying in front of him. His dirty-blond hair is now streaked with red, his face grimy and bloody. His eyes are a sickly golden yellow, rather than their normal ocean-blue, but oddly, that's not what strikes Pete as the most terrifying. He's still trying to comprehend two other gruesome details.

Why are his lips curled upwards in a sadistic smile?

Why is there a hook, where his left hand should be, dripping with blood?

 

Pete wakes up screaming, saturated in sweat, legs kicking uselessly and hands grasping at the air. He falls out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom to look in the mirror. He can distantly hear footsteps pounding up the stairs, but he doesn't care. He needs to know that he's alive.

Pete whips around the door frame, frantically fumbling for the light switch. He finally smacks into it, and the lights flare on, momentarily blinding him. When his vision clears, he can see his reflection.

No blood.

Frantic knocking on the bathroom door. "Pete, are you okay?" his mom calls, sounding worried.

"I'm fine, yeah, just another nightmare," Pete rasps, and the footsteps reluctantly retreat down the hallway. He sighs, a migraine already forming in the back of his skull.  He turns to exit the bathroom, hand already at the light switch, when something in his peripheral vision catches his eye. Pete swivels back to the mirror, craning his neck to see better.

A long, horizontal scar mars the tan skin of his neck, right over his jugular.

|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|

Patrick reaches out a hand to Pete's face, cupping his cheek and frowning. His hands are ice-cold, as usual, and Pete tries not to flinch at the contact. Patrick gently pushes Pete's head up so that his neck is exposed. Then the sub-zero fingers are tracing along the scar on his throat, and Pete finally jerks away. The smaller boy doesn't look offended, merely concerned.

"What happened to your neck?"

Pete avoids his gaze, tugging at a stray thread on his dark jeans. Patrick repeats the question. "Pete, what happened?"

Pete drags his eyes up to meet Patrick's, blinking back tears as the memories of his nightmare surge forth. "I..."

He can't finish before tears are streaming down his face, loud sobs forcing their way from his throat.

Patrick takes his hands and wipes away his tears. "Petey, shh, it's okay. I'm here, you can tell me, nothing's gonna hurt you." Pete falls forward, burying his head in Patrick's cardigan-clad shoulder and just _bawling_.

 _So weak_ , a voice taunts in his mind, but he ignores it.

Patrick stiffens for just a moment, but seems to accept it, hugging Pete and rubbing soothing circles on his back. After what feels like hours, Pete finally calms down enough to get out complete sentences without hiccuping. He pulls away, wiping at his eyes and nose.

"I... had this dream. Shadows were hurting me, killing me, slashing my arms, pulling my hair, cutting my stomach, whatever. There was blood. So much fucking blood. And then I finally got free." He takes a deep, shaky breath, rubbing his tingling arms. He knows he sounds childish but he doesn't know how else to say it, and he needs to tell someone.

_That someone had to be the one in his dream, didn't it?_

"I was curling up, in a ball, crying. Then you came, and you helped me up, wiped the blood off my face, hugged me. And then..." He can feel the sobs building behind his eyes, a mountain growing in his throat, constricting his oxygen. "Y-you cut my throat, P-Patrick. And that was when I woke up, screaming, and I ran to the bathroom, and I saw this fucking scar, on my throat, where you'd k-killed me." Pete's voice cracks on the last few words, and the sobs start up again.

He thinks it's stupid that he's crying so much over this little thing, but Patrick doesn't seem to share that opinion. He makes a little noise of sympathy and embraces Pete's violently trembling form. "Oh, god, Petey..."

Patrick holds him until Pete pulls away, swiping at his eyes and nose with the back of his hand. "I'm s-sorry. I don't know why I got so worked up." Patrick shakes his head. "No, your reaction was appropriate. I'd do the same thing if I had that nightmare." His words are followed by a shudder.

Pete sighs and reaches for the bedside lamp, extinguishing the dim light. The room descends into blackness, and he tries not to shiver. It's cold, a mid-November night, and he tugs the blankets up to his chin.

When Patrick slides under the covers beside him, Pete can't contain the small gasp that escapes his mouth. "Sorry. I'm cold." Pete can practically hear the smile in Patrick's voice, and he smiles back through the darkness, absently reaching for Patrick's hands and rubbing them. "You're always cold." Patrick abruptly stiffens beside him, and Pete pulls away.

_Have you fucked up again? God, you can't do anything right, no one will ever--_

"S-sorry," Patrick mumbles. "Just... thought of something. When you said that."

Pete hums in acknowledgement, his self-deprecating mental voice dissipating for the time being, and he turns onto his back, lost in his thoughts.

After a few minutes of silence, Patrick starts to sing softly: the same song he sings when he inexplicably knows Pete is hurting.

_"And I will say that we should take a day to break away from the the pain our brain has made, the game is not played alone. And I will say that we should take a moment and hold it and keep it frozen and know that life has a hopeful undertone..."_

Pete's eyelids grow heavy and fall closed, but he can't shake the feeling of uneasiness when Patrick flinched at his comment about the coldness, the knowledge that something wasn't right, the frustration of not knowing just what that something was.

_"But I know we've made it this far, kid..."_

His mind grows dull and he begins to slip away.

_"Made it this..."_

|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|

"I hate myself," Pete whispers into Patrick's shoulder.

"Why?" Patrick rubs his back, his touch comforting and soothing, but still so, so cold.

"I can n-never hold a relationship, I never think before I-I talk, I can't do anything right." More tears slip from Pete's swollen eyes, and he lets out a muffled sob. Instead of contradicting him or offering useless advice like everyone else, Patrick simply hugs him harder, letting him vent. 

"I feel like I'm drowning. Like my mind is a blizzard and I'm gonna freeze to death. I just--" Pete chokes on his words. "--I just don't know, P-Patrick. Everything I touch dies, I'm gonna fuck everything up, I'm gonna fuck _this_ up--"

Patrick interrupts him. "No, Pete, you aren't. Not this. I'm not gonna leave you to die. I promise." Pete pulls away, not trusting Patrick's vow. Not trusting himself. People have sworn that very same thing to him before, and they all have left him without a fire, left him to fend for himself against the sub-zero temperatures.

"You don't mean that."

"I do. Maybe they didn't, but I do."

Pete doesn't want to believe him--he's trusted too easily before--but when he looks into Patrick's eyes, swirling with a thousand hues of forest and ocean, he sees sincerity. Concern. Determination.

Love, maybe.

And Pete believes him.

|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|

"Not today, fucker!" Pete screeches, roughly shouldering Dallon. The other boy, nearly a foot taller than Pete, yelps as he flails to regain his balance. The Playstation controller flies across the room, and Dallon groans. Pete cheers as explosions light up the screen, signifying his victory.

"You are an asshole," Dallon whines, half-heartedly kicking Pete in the side as he sets off in search of the controller.

"A victorious asshole," Pete retaliates. Dallon sifts through a pile of dirty laundry, crinkling his nose as he does so. Pete nearly  loses his shit when the boy comes across a pair of boxers with stains all over them.

"What the hell is this?" Dallon all but squeaks, lifting them by the corner with his thumb and forefinger.

"Pizza grease, don't worry your cute little ass," Pete says. "It's not like I _came_ in--"

Dallon squawks and hurls the underwear across the room. "Dude! Shut up!"

Pete snorts and scoots towards the closet, emerging with the controller. "Your search is futile."

The taller boy looks incredulous. "You mean to tell me that I went through all that shit for nothing?"

Pete gives an exaggerated nod and grin. "I mean to tell you that you _wentz_ through all that shit for nothing, yes." Dallon rolls his eyes and accepts the controller. "You're impossible."

"I can't be. I exist."

"That's the problem."

"I prefer to call it the solution."

"Touché."

Dallon sounds distracted, despite the joke. Pete can't help but notice the way he's been looking around rather uneasily the entire time he's been here, like he's expecting something to leap from the walls at him. Pete shrugs it off, and they banter on for a while, until Dallon glances at his watch, his bright blue eyes widening comically. "Shit, man, I gotta be home in ten minutes."

Pete rolls his eyes. "And you live fifteen away, dumbass."

Dallon practically falls down the stairs, Pete following (un)gracefully after him.

"Say hi to Andy and Joe for me, will you?" Dallon wheezes as he struggles to pull on his sneakers and find his car keys at the same time. Pete nods, snickering as his friend lurches sideways, nearly crashing into Pete's mother's potted fern.

Dallon bolts out the door, and Pete watches him go, laughing openly as he pulls out of the darkened driveway with some difficulty.

The dark-haired boy turns to go back inside, only to be met with a livid-looking Patrick. He flinches, nearly yelping. He hadn't heard Patrick come up; nor had he heard the back door opening or closing.

What bothers Pete most is that he's never seen Patrick like this: cardigan-clad arms crossed over his chest, multicolored eyes narrowed in a glare, pale eyebrows furrowed to match.

"Whoa, dude." Pete chuckles nervously. "I didn't hear you come up, don't scare me like that." He moves to re-enter the house, but faster than he can blink, Patrick side-steps, blocking his way.

It's Pete's turn to frown. "Patrick. Dude. Can you let me in? It's cold out here."

Patrick's expression doesn't change. "Who was he?"

Confusion grips Pete's mind. "What?"

Patrick steps closer. "Who was he?" the rust-haired boy repeats, his voice lower than before, almost a growl. Pete shivers. It could've been hot, if it wasn't for the unsettling anger in Patrick's tone. "Dallon," Pete replies shortly. He tries to step around Patrick, but the boy blocks his path again. Irritation sparks in Pete, and goosebumps prickle at his bare arms, his hair raising in an attempt to shield him from the cold. "Patrick, I wanna come in."

Patrick stands unflinching. "Is he your boyfriend?" Pete's face flares with heat. "What? No!"

Patrick makes a low noise, almost a snarl, and Pete's starting to get a little scared.

"Don't lie to me, Pete."

It's Pete's turn to growl, his embarrassment morphing into frustration. "I'm not! He's just my best friend, okay? That's all we are! I'm not interested in him, he's not interested in me! Nothing is going to happen! So will you just let me in the damn house?" His voice crescendos as he rants, and he rubs at his arms, teeth beginning to chatter.

Patrick looks unconvinced, but reluctantly steps aside. Pete stomps into the warmth of the indoors, slamming the front door behind him and marching up the stairs to his bedroom. He glances over his shoulder as he ascends the steps.

What he sees nearly makes him trip and fall.

For just a second, he thinks Patrick's eyes are glowing that sickly gold from his dream as his unwavering gaze follows Pete up the stairs.

But then Pete blinks, and it's gone.

A vision? Paranoia? Hallucination?

Pete doesn't particularly want to know the answer.

He turns back and bounds up the carpeted steps, chills and uneasiness weaving down his spine and through his veins.

|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|

Pete grunts as he's roughly thrown into a freezing metal locker, his notebooks spilling into the linoleum. The group of jocks barrel past, laughing their loud, braying laughs and shoving one another.

As he stoops to gather the papers, Dallon appears and starts to help him. "Thanks," Pete wheezes as he straightens. "No problem," Dallon replies, his bright eyes gleaming in their usual mischief. They start down the hall together.

"Hey, I need to ask you something," Pete begins, and Dallon looks almost amused. "If it's about your sexual orientation, I really actually don't mind that you're bi, Pete. Seriously."

Pete splutters and flushes beet red. "Wh-what, no! That's not what I was going to say!" He lands a light punch on the taller boy's arm. Dallon snickers, and Pete laughs along before going serious again.

"Did anything happen in my house, before I lived there? Anything bad?"

Dallon's mouth drops open in an O. "W-what? Why would you ask that?" he sputters, nearly walking into a locker. Pete shrugs, trying his best to look nonchalant. "Just wondering. You were acting kinda weird when you came over on Saturday. And I feel weird sometimes, when I'm there."

The taller boy hesitates. "Pete, if I tell you, will you try your best not to freak out?"

Pete nods warily, his gut already churning with anticipation. "Yeah. I think I can handle it, Weekes." His best friend looks unconvinced, but continues anyway.

"So... there was an... accident there. A few years ago. There was this kid." Dallon takes a deep breath, his electric blue eyes fixed firmly on the stretch of hallway before them as they walked.

"He was around our age. Sixteen, seventeen, I'm not really sure. It was something like that. This was 2001, I think, or 2002. I can't remember. Anyway, he didn't show up to school for a while, and his parents were out of town, so naturally people went looking for him, thinking he was skipping school or something." Dallon holds up his hands, which are somehow free of textbooks.

 _Lucky bastard_ , Pete thinks. 

"What they didn't expect to find was his body in his house. Dead, for a few days already." Dallon looks like he wants to gag. Pete can't blame him. His own stomach's state has shifted from a light tumbling to a roiling mess, and he makes a face. "Damn," he mutters.

"They called it a suicide. But a lot of people think it wasn't."

They reach the school doors and exit into bright sunlight, stopping beneath an oak tree.

"His wrists were all slashed up, and his torso. Apparently he looked like he had taken a few scratches on the head, too, nothing too bad but enough to bleed. But none of that is even the worst part." Dallon leans closer, like he's telling a secret. He looks like he's about to be sick. Pete's sense of foreboding is rising too rapidly for his own liking.

"One of his hands--his left one, I think--was missing. Like it'd been chopped off." Dallon turns a little green, and Pete thinks that they might both lose their lunches if he goes into much more detail.

"No one would do that to themselves in a suicide. Unless they were really fucking insane or something, I don't know. But a lot of people think someone else killed him. There were no fingerprints, no evidence, nothing. Although they did find the kid's fingerprints on the knife that did it, which is probably why they called it a suicide. And a lot of the same people think that the kid's spirit is still there."

Dallon stops to take a deep breath, leaning heavily on the tree. "You look pretty damn freaked out, dude. I probably shouldn't have told you, sorry." It's then that Pete realizes that his brown eyes are wide as saucers.

"But it's just superstition, so don't, like, go off and hire an exorcist or the Ghostbusters or anything," Dallon finishes hastily.

Pete forces a small smile at the joke, even though his insides are screaming.

|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|

Pete thunders up the front steps, blasts his front door open, barrels up the staircase, and falls into his room, panting and sweating like he's just run a marathon. Which he might as well have: as soon as he was out of sight of the school, he had sprinted the whole way home, not stopping to wait for the bus. He collapses onto his carpet, gasping for air, still wearing his forest-green Jansport backpack.

A hand touches Pete's shoulder, and he screams out of sudden terror.

Patrick leaps back, looking frightened. "Oh my god, I'm sorry, Pete, did I hurt you?" 

Pete rolls onto his side, shrugging off his backpack and throwing it to the side. "No."

He forces himself into a sitting position, ignoring the burning ache in his legs. Patrick perches back on the corner of Pete's mattress. "Oh, good." He sounds relieved, but Pete's got more important things on his mind.

Preoccupied as such, he stands and crashes back to the ground, legs about as useful as rubber. "Shit," he grunts, rubbing at his bruised hip. Patrick kneels next to him. "Hey, slow up, buddy," he half-laughs, and Pete blushes.

He tries to get up again--he _has_ to do this--and falls back down.

What he doesn't expect is for Patrick to giggle and pull him into a kiss.

Pete is rigid, frozen in shock.

Then he finds himself kissing back.

Their lips dance slowly. Patrick's are plush and warm, and Pete knows that his own are slightly chapped, but Patrick doesn't seem to mind. (Pete's suddenly glad that he didn't eat the garlic bread at lunch--he prefers not to have bad breath, thanks.)

Patrick's cold hands lift to drape around Pete's neck, and Pete cards his hands through Patrick's soft rust-colored hair, deepening the kiss. They fall back onto the floor, Pete on top, and they both blush a little, but keep going.

Patrick lets out a tiny moan when Pete moves to his neck, and _fuck_ if it isn't the hottest thing Pete has heard yet. He begins kissing and sucking, and Patrick doesn't seem to object, so he takes the liberty of leaving hickeys along the pale expanse of skin. Patrick whimpers, and Pete smirks.

Freezing hands slide tentatively beneath the hem of his black t-shirt, touching the small of his back, and the sudden realization of what he's doing rips through Pete like he's just been electrocuted.

He tears away from Patrick's neck, leaving the younger boy (is he _really_ younger?) looking adorably confused, chest heaving and lips swollen. Pete would love the sight if he didn't know what he knew.

"I--I have to go to the b-bathroom," Pete stutters, clambering ungracefully off of Patrick and exiting the room without looking back.

Once he reaches the bathroom, he locks the door and sits against the bathtub, his thighs aching against the freezing tile. He pulls out his phone, which takes a few tries to unlock; Pete's fingers are shaking so badly.

Pulling up Google, he types in "glenview illinois 2001 teen suicide" and hits "search," terrified of what he might find.

He immediately regrets looking for it.

 

_Patrick Stumph, 16, was found dead in his Glenview home on Sunday, November 4._

_The cause of death appears to have been a suicide, police say. There was no evidence of a homicide._

_The teen suffered multiple cuts and bruises on his torso, arms, and head, as well as the loss of his left hand._

_Stumph's parents were out of town at the time of his death, and rushed home after being notified of the discovery of their son's body._

_"He suffered from depression, but we never knew it was that bad," Stumph's mother commented tearfully._

_The funeral and memorial service is to be held Thursday, November 8._

 

Pete finishes the brief article, staring blankly at the small screen of his phone, and the picture accompanying the article. 

Patrick. 

Undeniably Patrick.

Fifteen years.

Fifteen years Patrick has been dead.

Patrick is dead.

Patrick is a ghost.

A spirit.

It explains too much.

Pete is afraid to stand, afraid that when he looks in the bathroom mirror he will see something terrifying. He clenches his eyes shut, trying not to hyperventilate.

_Patrickisdeadpatrickisaghostyoukissedaghostyou'reinlovewithaghost_

Pete claps his hands over his ears, ignoring the screaming inside his head, ignoring Patrick's insistent knocking at the door.

"Pete? Are you okay?"

"Fine," he whimpers, not daring to open his eyes and look in the mirror.

He knows he will see the long scar over his throat.

"No, you're not. Come on, Pete, open up," Patrick calls through the door.

Pete reflexively shakes his head, realizing too late that Patrick can't see him. He does it anyway, against his better judgement, pulling the door open to reveal a concerned-looking Patrick, who immediately pulls him into a hug. Pete nearly has a heart attack.

"Oh my god, I'm sorry, did I do something? Are you okay? I'm sorry!" Patrick babbles. Pete hardly dares to breathe, but he somehow chokes out: "It--It's fine." Patrick pulls away, clasping Pete's hands and looking immensely relieved. "Oh, good, I wasn't sure if I fucked up, or--but are you..."

His voice trails off when his eyes land on Pete's phone, which the boy still clutches in a white-knuckled grip.

The article, along with Patrick's photo, is still clearly displayed on the screen.

Pete tries to stuff it into his back pocket, but Patrick's hand lashes out and grasps his wrist, frighteningly fast.

"Why?"

Patrick's voice is rough, a huge contrast from his previous light tone. Pete doesn't say anything.

He doesn't need to.

Patrick stares at his phone for a moment, then turns on his heel and walks into Pete's room.

Pete runs after him before he can think about what he's doing, and barrels into Patrick just before the door slams. Patrick whirls around to face Pete. "Why did you do that?"

Pete doesn't reply again.

Patrick exhales sharply and sits in the edge of the mattress. "You know what? That's not important. You were going to find out eventually." He laughs bitterly. "And who would ever want to have anything to do with a dead boy? I've been here too long. Fifteen years. But I'm sure you know that."

His voice is getting softer, his eyes turning more manic by the second, and Pete is becoming more and more terrified, his insides turning to ice. This isn't his Patrick.

"I thought you would be different. I don't know why, I just did. But no one wants to love a dead person, and I guess you're no exception."

Pete starts to speak, to tell Patrick that he _did_  love him, but Patrick cuts him off.

"Don't tell me you love me, Pete. I can see the fear in your eyes. You're scared of me. And nothing I can do is gonna change that." Tears start to leak from Patrick's eyes. "I didn't commit suicide, Pete. They say I did, but most believe I was murdered. They're right."

He steps closer, and Pete draws back sharply. Patrick's eyes and voice are rimmed with insanity.

"Yeah, I was murdered. Among other things that article you read didn't mention. By the person I loved the most, no less. He did most of this to me, and more." Patrick lifts his shirt, and Pete can't contain the gasp that flies from his mouth.

Patrick's abdomen is a patchwork of cuts and gashes and bruises. His arms are the same, and blood drips from a large wound on his forehead, right at his hairline. The ghost smiles, a deranged grin, so horribly different from his familiar affable expression, and it makes Pete's skin crawl.

"I can show you that night, Petey. And we can avenge my death together."

And then the world is falling away around them.

|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|~|

Pete's eyes snap open, and he sits up hastily, looking around. He's in his own bedroom, on the floor. He wonders if this was all just a bad dream, until he takes in the details.

The bedding is plain navy blue, and the floors are wooden instead of beige carpet. The walls are decorated with posters of Prince and Michael Jackson, a bulky stereo sits on the dresser, and the floor is littered with papers, among a few No. 2 pencils.

The calendar on the far right wall reads November, 2001. A few days are crossed off in the beginning, making today...

...Sunday, November 4, 2001.

The exact date of Patrick's death.

They've been transported back in time.

Pete clambers to his feet, fear making him clumsy, and someone says from behind him, "Well, I see you're awake."

Pete yelps and spins around. It's Patrick, with his arms folded over his chest and a sick smirk on his face.

"Let's begin, shall we?" He takes Pete's hand and leads him down the hall, into the bathroom.

It has horrible floral wallpaper and green tile, and Pete's suddenly very glad that the house had been renovated before they had moved in. He can't fathom how Patrick lived with this shitty decor.

Then Patrick whirls, so suddenly that Pete has no time to process what's happening before pain slams into his left arm, and he yells out.

He lifts his arm to examine it, and his brown eyes widen in terror.

The skin has been ripped from wrist to elbow, dripping blood onto the floor below.

Pete's head snaps up to stare at Patrick in horror. Patrick's eyes are that unnatural gold, but he doesn't have any more of the injuries from before, except for one thing.

In lieu of his left hand is that metal hook, its point sharp and lethal and dripping with blood.

_Pete's blood._

Pete steps away, and his back hits the door. He turns and jiggles the knob in desperation. It's locked, of course.

He has no escape.

And judging by the obvious insanity that's practically radiating from Patrick, he's not going to get out alive, either.

Pete feels faint, his blood running through his veins like ice, and he just barely has time to whimper before the hook is slicing through his right arm, tearing a gash from wrist to elbow, identical to the one on his left arm.

The whimper turns into a scream, and Pete slides down the door, spots swimming before his vision. His hand slumps to the side, touching tile and a cold metal blade.

_Wait, what?_

Pete blinks away the stars, enough to make out the fuzzy shape of a machete lying next to him on the floor.

He picks it up, slowly realizing that its handle is the neck of a bass guitar. Weird, but he's not going to complain.

Not when he has a chance, however small, of surviving.

Patrick lunges at him again, and Pete's bloody, torn arms act of their own accord.

One flies to the side to keep his balance. The other brings the machete up, slicing multiple times across Patrick's stomach.

The boy wails, clutching at his torso and dropping to his knees, and Pete is filled with horror, however strange it is, at what he's just done.

"Patrick!" he cries, dropping down in front of Patrick, grabbing at his shoulders. "Oh god, fuck, I--"

He's cut off when Patrick's eyes burn with new fury, and he raises his left arm to strike at Pete. But he isn't fast enough this time, and Pete manages to void the blow by an inch.

_"I loved you!"_

The cry bubbles from Patrick's throat, desperate and filled with pain. And fuck, if it doesn't rip Pete's heart in half right there.

"I--" Pete doesn't get to finish his sentence before Patrick is on his feet again, launching himself at Pete with everything he's got. Pete blocks the strike with the blade of his machete, and they roll around on the floor of the small bathroom, slamming into walls and throwing punches and bites and blows.

Patrick ends up on top, pinning Pete to the tile and straddling his stomach, raising his hook high. Pete clenches his eyes shut and waits for death.

"Any last words, Petey?"

Pete lets out a choked sob, forcing his eyes open to take one last look at Patrick. The boy he loved, who sang him to sleep at night, who held him when he thought he couldn't hold on any longer. Who is about to murder him.

"You're going to die," Pete rasps.

Definitely not the smartest "last words" choice.

But for some reason, it stalls Patrick.

"This is you from 2001," Pete continues. "You die, Patrick. Remember? You're a ghost. You get murdered, here, now. We're witnessing your death."

Pete closes his whiskey eyes for what is almost certainly the final time and tenses his hands.

"And Patrick? I loved you, too."

Then he whips the machete up in a silver-and-red blur, driving it into Patrick's stomach with all of his remaining strength.

The boy screams in agony and falls to the side, writhing and clawing at the stab wound. Pete springs to his feet and brings the weapon down again, blood spraying up. He shuts his eyes, forces down the bile that's climbing rapidly in his throat, and does it again.

He doesn't at all expect Patrick to leap up with a roar of fury and slam him back to the ground, his head smashing into the tile.

The hook comes down, and Pete howls, writhing on the bloodstained tile.

The agony is indescribable. The smack of the rubber band, all those months ago, was a tap on the nose compared to this. It's like a white-hot knife being driven again and again into his chest. Patrick screams and brings the hook down for the second time. Pain explodes through Pete's body, and he feels himself start to slip away, black edging his vision.

Pete doesn't know how many more times Patrick does it, until the ghost slices Pete's neck, right over his jugular, and the next thing that he knows, he's seeing his own body before him, bloody and broken.

He watches Patrick straighten, his breaths hissing heavily from his lungs. "You didn't last as long as I would've liked, Petey," he wheezes, meeting Pete's eyes and grinning sadistically for one last time. Then the boy collapses as the fatal stab wounds finally get the better of him.

As Pete watches, his own bloodied body shimmers seemingly out of existence, leaving nothing behind but crimson pools on the ugly tiles.

Freezing hands clasp his own from behind, a familiar form pressing to his back. But the person there is the polar opposite of the one he thought he knew and loved.

Patrick rests his chin on Pete's shoulder, talking softly into his ear. "I was murdered by the one I loved the most, remember? Now you can love me back forever. We're both ghosts now."

Pete feels tears soak his cheeks.

"W-where did my body go?"

It's kind of a stupid question, but Patrick giggles, a sound that chills Pete to the bone.

"Back to the present, dumbass. They can find your body in your bathroom, with no fingerprints on the machete but your own and pretty wounds all over. They'll call it a suicide like mine. We can be twin skeletons."

A silent sob shakes Pete, and Patrick kisses his neck. "At least you won't be alone, Petey. We can haunt this place together, for the rest of time. Just you and me. You can finally be all _mine_." He mouthes along Pete's neck, right over the now-fresh scar over his jugular, as he speaks.

"I have a new song, Petey. Do you want to hear it?" he says sweetly, pulling away. His lips are stained red with Pete's blood.

Pete whimpers.

Patrick starts to sing.

_"And live with me forever now, you pull the blackout curtains down..."_


	2. ~Author's Note~

Hey, frens!

So, I was thinking of remastering this fic. Maybe adding a few new scenes (maybe even another background ship or two if you guys want them), improving the writing overall, filling in some plot holes/inaccuracies I've noticed that have been bugging me. Perhaps even a little prologue of sorts, Patrick's backstory in detail, if you want that.

What do you think? Leave a comment, and if you have anything in mind for me to add/fix, feel free to ask about it. I'm open to ideas. :)

Thank you so much for all your kudos and positive comments! <3 I'm sorry I haven't posted anything lately or continued my other fics, I've been really busy with school. Plus I started watching four different animes all at once, so... well, that's pretty much self-explanatory. But anyways--I'll try to post more often; especially with summer coming up in a few months, hopefully I'll be more active.

-FallOutBeebo

**Author's Note:**

> For no apparent reason, I nearly threw up while editing this. Seriously. The content wasn't making me sick or anything, I just randomly gagged all of a sudden and WHOOPEE, BILE!
> 
> But I didn't throw up, and I'm considering that my accomplishment of the day.
> 
> On that note,
> 
> Happy Halloween! Stay bootiful, frens <3


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